Cuts Like A Knife
by BookCaseGirl
Summary: Mostly centered around Blair. Slight C/B. Loosely takes place after Season 3...extreme angst; what happens when Blair finds the world closing in, when she just can't take it anymore?


**Author's Note:** I struggled with myself when deciding whether or not to post this. Honestly, it scared the hell out of me as I was writing this story. I was freaked out by what a different turn it was taking...I'm used to writing angst, but this is more...but, in some weird way, I'm proud of it. So I thought I would put it out there, just to see if anyone else thought it was worth reading or interesting. This is your last warning about how extreme this is...

P.S. Thanks to Michelle for her fantastic encouragement :)

_Cuts Like A Knife_

She stared at the knife where it lay on the table, mocking her relentlessly. _We both know you won't do it_, it taunted. _You're too _scared_._ Blair's eyes morphed into slits as she raised her right hand and ran it along the length of the utensil – softly, calculatedly. She picked up the knife and brought it nearer to her face before using her other hand to stroke the sharp edge.

The knife pushed into her skin, but did not break the surface. She had the sudden urge to saw back and forth, merely for the sake of her own curiosity, but then remembered the task at hand. Blair ran the tip of the sharp object down the length of her index finger, and then the palm of her hand, finally reaching her wrist. She'd just washed her hands with hot, scalding water, and her veins were clearly visible beneath the pale skin just below her hand.

Experimenting, Blair applied a light pressure on her wrist, right above the blue-ish green line of her blood. Her stomach gave a lurch before she could pierce the skin, and she took the knife away from her wrist. Taking a deep breath, Blair closed her eyes and brought the sharp edge to the skin once more, this time, pressing until she felt the thin layer of her pale, porcelain-like wrist tear.

Relief. She let out a content sigh as warm blood pooled on the tile of her bathroom sink. Pictures of Chuck flashed through her mind, but wistfully. Her thoughts were not as rushed and angered as they normally were, and her body was relaxed (slumped) against the marble of the counter. Her legs started to give way a little bit, so Blair sat down on the plush rug that donned the floor.

The edges of her vision were starting to get blurry as hot (it had been warm, now it nearly burned) red blood continued to drizzle (pour) out of the vein just below her right hand. She opened a door under the sink and pulled out an old, dingy brown towel. Applying pressure against her wrist as hard as she could in her slightly weaker state, she rose from the floor (stars clouding her eyes, the room going black for a moment) and ran cold water in the sink. Taking the towel away from her wrist (gagging at the blood that had already soaked through) she held it under the water until it was soaked more, and then pressed it back on her wrist.

She lay back on the bathroom floor, her head swimming, the ceiling spinning. The knife was still on the counter, right next to the sink, just _daring_ her to perform the same action with her other wrist. The blood on the jagged edge of the object smelled like a sweet nectar used to draw in a prospective victim. She was the helpless victim; the knife the most deadly of flowers.

Blair's heart beat wildly, and thoughts of him flood her mind's eye once again, this time covered in panic and desperation. She craved the relief she had felt only moments before. Was hungry for the sweet salvation and smooth release her friend, the knife, gave her. She didn't think this time; didn't give herself time to doubt what she was doing.

It wouldn't mock her this time – she wouldn't give it the chance. It wouldn't have the satisfaction of making her feel as meek and meager as life always did. She was bigger, better, stronger than this wimp of a tool.

A shaky hand reached out for the blood-covered knife, but Blair could not be quite sure whether or not it was her own. _Bud-dump, bud-dump, budddd-duuummmp,_ her heart beat seemed to be slowing down little by little as it pounded in her ears. It was all she could hear; the theme song for the task that she was about to complete.

This time, it happened without one millisecond of preamble. The blade pierced the skin of her left wrist and blood gushed. A thought flew through her mind that she had pressed too hard against the fragile skin – it was happening too fast this time. Instead of relief flooding through her, a blanket of fear and alarm settled around her, seeped inside of her. The threw the knife angrily (_why_ hadn't it worked the second time?) and it flew into her room, blood fanning out on her carpeting (her mother would kill her).

Blair fell back against the floor once again, pressing the towel against her left hand now, and then against her right again. She continued alternating, trying to breathe deeply and stay above the hysteria that threatened to overcome her. The room was spinning again, and something was pulsing through her, but she couldn't be sure what it was.

Her eyes fluttered; she was struggling to keep a hold on a world that had been so cruel and unforgiving to her. She thought of Serena – beautiful, flawless Serena. Perfection in human form. Surely _she_ wouldn't be caught doing something like this – something so dirty, so despicable, so..._middle-class_. Everyone knew that if someone in _their_ crowd was trying for an "escape" (like she was at the moment) they drank a copious amount of liquor or had "a few too many" narcotics.

Cutting oneself was simply...frowned upon.

Thoughts jumbled in her mind, and she felt things slipping away. It was a nice sort of slipping away, though. Not the kind filled with agitation and terror, but a peaceful drifting away. Like Blair was falling asleep. When everything finally went black, the last thought she had was _Thank you, God._

**Three Hours Later...**

"Oh-two, stat!" she heard a voice, but it was far away and foggy. "She's losing three milliliters a second, here, people. Hurry it up!" The voice was definitely female – an assertive female, at that.

Blair blinked her eyes open and stared up at the people who surrounded her. Green scrubs, blue scrubs, yellow scrunchie hats, rubber gloves. Looking up further, she noticed a bright white light right above her face, nearly blinding her. She tried to scream at them, to say "hey! Turn the _damn_ light down!". Nothing but a small, breathy gurgle came out.

Suddenly she began to choke, a rancid plastic taste in her mouth. She looked helplessly at one of the people on her right, and they pulled out a needle. Was she in hell? What _was_ this? Things were becoming less focused once again, and the voices were fading slowly, until she heard nothing at all.

**One Hour Later...**

"God, please don't tell me I did this to you. I couldn't live with myself if I did, Blair. It'd be too much. Why...how could you do something like this?" She recognized the voice, but kept her eyes closed. Blair was exhausted, and didn't want to have to be blinded by the beauty of Serena van der Woodsen at that moment.

"Shit, what did I do?" she heard a scratching noise and assumed the blonde was running her long fingernails through her long tresses of hair, frustrated and confused. Good, she deserved to be. She hadn't caused this, but Blair didn't need to tell her that. Let her sit and wonder for God knew how long.

"I...I never should have been so...so _me_. It was wrong, and...oh, Jesus." Serena's voice was thick with tears, and she sniffled before Blair heard the scrape of a chair. "I can't handle this." Her voice bounced off of another wall, and it seemed she was talking to someone else.

"Okay, I'll take you home then, I guess. You coming too?" It was Nate. He sounded tired, stressed.

"No, I'll stay." Blair hated that voice; wished it was dead; wished _she_ was dead just so she wouldn't have to hear it.

The door closed quietly, and then another voice spoke. Blair wanted to shift, move to her side, but was afraid that if she moved, someone would know she was up and she'd be forced to face the fact that her escape plan had not succeeded.

"You should go, too." It was her mother. "It's awfully late."

"I'll _stay_." She could just picture him pinching the bridge of his nose impatiently. Making that face that always signaled just how exhausted he was; the face that made her want to kiss away all his..._No_. She didn't want that. He was a bastard; a relentlessly narcissistic _prick_. She hated him; she hated him _so much_ with _every fiber_ of her withered being.

"I'm going to go and get myself a latte. Would you like anything, Charles?" Her heels clacked on the floor as she walked towards the door, and then stopped.

"No," he replied quietly. The door closed and Blair heard the creak of weight being put on a chair. He'd had the _audacity_ to sit _down_ while she was still _in the room_. Asshole. Her heart ached (from the loss of blood, not the loss of Chuck) and her soul felt empty; she just wanted to fall asleep again; wanted to never wake up.

"I'm such a fucking idiot." He _would_ make it about him with the first words uttered to her. Chuck was selfish, it was just his nature. "I'm so sorry." Her heart warmed (with newly pumping blood, not with any sort of emotion for _Chuck_). She became aware of a pulsing throb in her wrists – not a pain, but rather a pesky reminder of what had occurred not long ago.

"I'm still so in love with you. It feels...I feel...It's like you took away a fucking part of me when you did this. There's something missing inside of me. Please, just..._please_ wake up. _Please, Blair._"

Hah! That was rich. She'd wake up just because he begged. Nothing he said would make her open her eyes. She couldn't find it in her to forgive him. Forgiveness was not something she just handed out like candy on Halloween. It was a heavy feeling that she took seriously; and Chuck no longer deserved that consideration.

It would hurt her too much.

"I know there's nothing I can say to make this better; I can't wish it better, either. Only time will tell. But...you have to know that I'm never going to leave you. I'll never not be in love with you, Blair. This feeling – the way my heart swells when I'm around you – it's the most intense thing I've ever felt. And it's not going away."

"Get out, you jerk." She wanted the words to come out, loud and clear and concise. But instead they were a gargle, and she realized with a defeated slump of her body that there was a tube down her throat. Blair noticed a _beep beep beep_ that could only be the heart monitor.

It sounded slow, subdued.

Had she lost that much blood?

Apparently she hadn't lost enough, if she was lying in this hospital bed, still very much alive.

He was by her bedside now; she could sense him. Miracle of miracles, Blair opened her eyes, trying to glare at him. Instead, she felt something wet beneath her lids. _Tears_. She wouldn't let them fall, though. If they fell, he won.

And this was one game he couldn't win.

Ever-so-gently, Chuck grasped her limp hand, clasping it with his own and covering the top with his other hand. A sharp pain shot through her, beginning at the tips of her toes and running up and through her limbs, until it reached the roots of her hair. Someone, something, had sliced her open and she was open, bared for the whole world to see. She didn't want that, not in front of _him_.

The pain throbbed continuously in the wrist and hand that he had grabbed. Her heart was beating wildly within the caverns of her tired chest cavity. Her lungs struggled to do what should have been instantaneous. She heart the frequent, angry beeping of the heart monitor – it was speedy, rushed, each _beep_ jumping on top of the next one _toosoontoosoontoosoon_.

She had lost the desire to live. Lost the motivation to allow the beat of her heart with each passing moment; she no longer felt any reason for her lungs to expand and collapse (a normal occurrence so many took for granted).

The beeping was getting faster, more frantic, so fast she was sure it couldn't be real. No longer did she feel his hand on hers, she heard nothing, saw nothing but the black behind her eyes. She let out one breath, what she hoped was her last, and heard a long, strained _bbbbuuuuurrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeee_.

She was glad it was all over now.

Because living the way she did – living like that – it cut her like the sharpest, most deadly knife.

**End Note: **Review pleeaaassse?


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